Bittersweet Thoughts
by SulpiciaDoesntApprove
Summary: She is just a child, you tell yourself. But you’re not too sure about that anymore. And you wonder.
1. Fire

_**This is a sidequel to my fic "Bittersweet".**__** But you can also read it detached from that.**_

_**Some musing**__**, pondering and arguing from inside Aro's mind. **_

_**I wanted to keep "Bittersweet" in Jane's POV, but I just couldn't stop wondering about Aro's thoughts…. And prudent Aro's thought are most likely a little bit more complex than emotional Jane's.**___

_**So these are going to be "drabbles", if you will.**_

_**And yes, I know, the title isn't very creative. Try to ignore it until I come up with something better.**_

---

You remember the day like it was yesterday.

Demetri was the only one brave enough to come to the tower room and tell you.

"They are collecting wood in great quantities," he informed you, not daring to look you in the eyes, "they are going to burn them at the stake."

And you didn't have to ask him to know who he was talking about.

The promising twins, talented like no one you had ever met before in your over two thousand years. They had been destined to be the centerpieces of your extraordinary collection.

And now those inferior, loathsome humans were going to ruin it all.

You could not accept that.

It was too soon, they were only children! Their talents hadn't had the time to fully develop!

"Demetri, bring the entire guard," you hissed and your fury was as dreadful as the wrath of an ancient God. The villagers had forfeited their lives for daring to burn them, daring to betray you.

You came with nightfall.

To them, it must have looked frightening and beautiful at the same time. An army of dark cloaked avenging angels who visited upon them. Like the Devil himself had unleashed hell to save the witch twins who were tied to two high-piled stakes, blindfolded and whimpering in fear.

And they were already afire.

The blazing flames flaring up to the smoky night sky and licking greedily on your precious jewels' feet, working their way up to their legs.

You were the first to see the horrible scenario unfolding before your eyes, you were racing ahead of everyone else.

You could hear the screaming start behind you. But you only had eyes for the precious ones in front of you.

The pile with the boy was smoldering and the flames were slow to spread.

But the girl was already ablaze. You could hardly make out her tiny frame through all the smoke and fire. However, you could hear her agonized, ear piercing screams all too clearly.

There was not much time to react. If the fire would have touched your icy skin, you would have burst into flames too. But you didn't let yourself think about that. You leapt right into the inferno.

She was still screaming and convulsing with pain in your arms. Her angelic features were twisted in agony and tears were running down her sooty cheeks. The remaining shreds of her dress were burned to her charred body.

You covered her up with your cloak.

The screaming in the background was dying down. You lifted the girl up gently.

_He must be an angel,_ you heard her thoughts, but they were blurry. She was drifting into unconsciousness. You were going to lose her.

You put your lips to her throat. And even through all the grime and pain you could distinguish the potent lavender scent of her blood.

---

_**Never get into pissed Aro's way.**_


	2. Jewel

_**Aro's thoughts on Jane and her strange behavior.**_

_**Why do I love minor characters so much? And non-canon pairings? **_

---

You pass Jane in the hallway. She looks upset.

But you can't tell for sure.

Because you can't read her emotions.

You can't even read her mind, because she won't let you. It's something you actually never had to deal with before. With everyone else, you would have no mercy. But for some reason, it's different with Jane.

A lot of things are different with Jane.

She won't let you read her thoughts. She just won't let you, simple as that. She won't even talk to you. And every time you try to tell her that you are worried about her, she refuses to look at you.

And it makes you feel a strange kind of helplessness that you have never experienced before.

You look thoughtfully at the child woman standing in front of you. You see her angelic features, the huge burgundy eyes. They used to be sky blue, you remember.

Once upon a time.

She was a child then, only a child. And when they burned her and her brother you got so angry, you couldn't even put your fury in words. And you had no other choice but to turn them.

Existence is not fair, and the one of the undead is even less. And still. Her fate is not a happy one. Frozen before the prime of life, sentenced to a life in the creeping shadows.

Irreversible. For an eternity.

It's not fair.

You can see the bitterness and sadness in her eyes. You can't help but notice.

You also notice her full, red lips.

She is the most precious jewel in your collection, you tell yourself. Useful and unique. Lethal. But isn't her brother too?

You want to protect her, because you know her fragile soul isn't as indestructible as her androgynous body. But then you get the feeling that being her protector isn't the right thing either.

There is something in her eyes sometimes. When she thinks nobody can see. Something dark and magnetic. A strange, frightening pull.

She is just a child, you tell yourself. But you're not too sure about that anymore.

And you wonder.

---

_**Review. :)**_


	3. Secret

_**I'm tired…. Insomnia is not a nice thing, even though it gives you plenty of time to write. If there are spelling or grammar mistakes: blame it on sleep deprivation.**_

---

Secrets.

They are everywhere within these ancient walls. Hiding in dusty corners. Locked behind brittle wooden doors.

But they can't hide from you. Because you will find out in the end.

You always do.

You are a mind reader.

You search for secrets and you won't rest until you know the truth, every unpleasant detail of it.

You search through Felix and Demetri's and Heidi's and Chelsea's thoughts. Even though you're not sure about what you hope to find there. You make up excuses, of course. Pretend you're interested in the outcome of the last wrestling match.

Nothing. Not the slightest hint.

Just more mysteries and secrets.

Alec's mind is possibly the most revealing.

But still, it doesn't explain things.

You just see his sister falling apart in his memories. You see her huddled in dusty corners. You see her frail shoulders shake with tearless sobs.

She is hiding it well from you.

Seeing her like this, even only through her brother's tinted thoughts, makes you want to rush to her room and demand to know her dark secret immediately. You want to know what lead to this. You want to see someone responsible for her pain.

But she keeps on hiding and making up excuses.

And whenever you touch Marcus' hand, Jane is there. Her very presence is clouded in feelings that seem strangely familiar to you, but how are you supposed to know?

You are not an emotion reader.

And Marcus continues showing you Jane's cherubic face, but you never get an explanation to that. It's like he wants to tease you, without actually caring about the reason behind her sorrow.

You can't take it anymore. You need to know her secret.

You need to see her smile again.

And Marcus continues giving you meaningful looks.

---

_**Marcus: "Buy yourself a goddamn psychology book already, Aro!"**_

_**Review. :)**_


	4. Emotion

_**I usually get the ideas for these drabbles while writing on "Bittersweet".**__** So it's kind of self-explanatory that Jane/Aro shows up in them most of the time. Don't like, don't read. ;)**_

_**I spend way too much of my time writing. It's like an addiction, really. And **__**I get ideas at the most random times. Like, during a math test, for example, so I always carry a notebook with me to write down all my ideas. Thing is, my friends are very curious and want to read my stories. So if they ever get hold of my notebook and find the weird English sentences about some little girl and a "master" I will have SO much trouble explaining that. o.O**_

_**Anyway, before the A/N gets longer than the drabble:**_

---

Her thoughts are fascinating to you.

They are a blur of colors, smells, sounds and feelings.

Emotions.

You don't understand even half of them, but it makes it just all the more intriguing.

You have seen so many minds, so many thoughts, all white and black and so similar to each other after some time.

Her mind is different.

Even pain has a color with her. It's red and blinding and she likes to throw it out at others.

No, she doesn't like it. That took you a long time to see. It's more of a twisted pleasure. It makes her glow, but with every time she does it, the glowing gets weaker. Fire, dying down.

There are other colors too.

You like them. And you would give anything to decipher them.

Ah, what would you give to not only be only able to read plain thoughts, but also the motivation and emotions behind them!

So you like to be around her, brush your fingers against her soft, milk white skin and watch her thoughts, trying to understand them.

She never stops to amaze you.

You can see that her mind is filled with mysterious, contradicting emotions, but why does she decide to hide them behind a mask of apathy?

She will never stop to amaze you.

And when you kiss her, the colors take over her mind.

It makes you smile.

---

_**Short, I know. Writing from Aro's POV is fun, but also difficult, because he has so many different sides to his character and I really want to do that justice.**_

_**Maybe I'll change it to first or third POV later? But at the moment Aro is still being an emotionally distant "know-it-all", so it just seemed more fitting…. ;)**_


	5. Rain

_**Obviously, it would be very hard for Aro to admit that he might be in love with Jane and even – gasp – physically attracted to her.**_

---

She climbs in through the window, small feet, lithe, slender figure. She brings the smell of fresh rain and damp lavender with her. And as her bare feet touch the stone floor, they make the quietest sound, only a soft touch in the dark night with all the sounds from outside from the streets muffled, far away within these thick walls.

You stand in the shadows, arms crossed over your chest, completely motionless, and she only becomes aware of your presence as she straightens up from her crouched posture.

Her expression changes from dreamy and absorbed in her own little world to one of concealed guilt and she flinches just so slightly. "I'm… sorry, master, I was just sitting outside on the roof, watching the festivities," she whispers apologetically, "I didn't mean to sneak out." She blinks. There are tiny, glittering droplets of water caught in her long, thick lashes.

"It was nice," she adds, "in the rain."

She stands there by the window, her short, lank hair dark from the rain, droplets running down her cherubic face and dripping from her delicate chin, her full, scarlet red lips wet. She looks at you, ruby eyes large, lips slightly parted, her head tilted like a young, curious bird.

She is innocence.

She was once, a long time ago, before you damned her to this existence in the shadows. She was innocence once upon a time, and in this moment she still is.

She looks like an enchanted, innocent angelic creature standing there, her peculiar sweet, sadistic smile playing around her plump, wet lips as she understands that you are not angry with her. Her frail shoulders relax.

Outside, the big, heavy raindrops splatter on the pavement, flood the streets with the celebrating, transitory humans in them.

Reanimating rain. It is so rare in dry Tuscany.

You look at her, soaked to the skin. She reminds you of a long forgotten Greek nymph like that, you think idly.

The plain dress she wears is bright blood red in honor of today's festive day, the cut is loose and innocent, really, and only subtly girlish, just like her. But it is short enough to show off her long, pale legs. And her wet porcelain skin glistens in the silver moonlight, lines of water running down to her tiny feet, one foot on the other as she shifts her weight slightly.

And you can't help but notice that the light, thin fabric of her dress is soaked and, although not transparent, clings to her slender body in a way that does not leave a lot left to imagination. Her small, lithe body is androgynous and her thin legs are too long in proportion to the rest of her young body, but she has the beginning of curves in just the right places. She is a paradox, neither child nor woman, but somewhere caught in between, caught in transition forever.

A child woman, a strange, enchanted angelic creature veiled with cold distance and sweet innocence. Her lovely face apathetic, her fragrance of lavender, fire and rain potent.

She is beautiful.

She gives you a curious look and it's only then you realize that you have been staring the entire time.

"Your dress is wet," you blurt out like it is your nature and immediately want to slap yourself mentally. It is such a stupid thing to say.

She looks down her body then.

"Oh."

And if she were human and could blush, her cheeks would surely turn a deep crimson now.

If you could, you would blush too.

"Here, take this," you say, handing her your cloak. You swallow and avert your gaze politely.

---

_**Creepy? You decide!**_


	6. Porcelain

_**Lonely Scarecrow reminded me that I still had this "kind of drabble series". And since I have dozens of finished and half finished drabbles lying around, I figured I could upload one of them. I would have forgotten it over baking cookies. ;P**_

_**Some making-out ahead. Nothing too bad.**_

---

She is tiny.

Her hands are so small they fit two times in between your long fingers. And every time her soft, porcelain skin touches your bone white palm, thoughts and emotions spark and jumble and make your head spin.

She looks up at you, face of a doll, eyes of a bewitched angel. She laughs her tinkling child laugh. "Smile," she demands and gets up on her tiptoes to smother your furrowed brows.

She is so tiny you are only on the same eyelevel when you are sitting or lift her up.

She spins around on her heels, a petite dancer, a lethal doll, and presses her small hands to your chest. She bites her little, plump lips and her mind is teasing you.

Flittering, sadistic images, sweet, tinted memories. And very interesting, vague fantasies. Vague and coy because they have only become reality in her mind so far. You could help with that of course…

Without thinking, you smash her against the wall roughly and crash your lips with hers.

She gasps, sucking in the breath from your mouth, and there is some dust.

That little, sweet gasp makes you come to your senses.

You pull away quickly. "I'm sorry." You grin sheepishly, but deep down you don't really mean it.

She wraps her thin arms around your neck and pulls you down to her again. "For what?" she asks and smirks at you. She sucks on your lower lip hungrily, pressing her lithe body closer to yours. "Granite is not that easy to break, you know?"

You shake your head in disapproval. "Naïve little girl," you whisper, "you are as breakable as a porcelain doll."

"What are you so afraid of?"

_Hurting you. Losing you. Destroying you._

But you don't answer her.

Instead, you bury your fingers in her short, soft hair, cupping her fragile skull. And you don't need to read her thoughts to know that her whimpers are not whimpers of pain or fear and the way she holds her slender body to yours shows how much she trusts you.

_I don't deserve your trust._

But that thought too is whirled away every time your cold tongues touch. And the tiny rational part of your mind that is still left tells you that you must look pathetic writhing there on the naked stone floor with tiny Jane, limbs tangled, too much thick, scratchy fabric between your bodies, but all of that reasoning is washed away as her sweet lavender breath washes over your face.

And it is selfish, greedy and reckless. Not to mention wrong. And yet you can't make yourself stop.

You can't stop yourself from kissing her, kissing her delicate neck, kissing her angular collarbones, kissing her small lips which so passionately hold their own against your greedy ones. And at the same time you fear to crush her delicate, tiny frame under your long, lean body.

This is about so much more.

And it is potentially devastating.

"You worry too much." It is one of her statements, a strange, emotional logic that you can't argue against. Emotions have their own logic, are their own arguments. She wraps her skinny legs around your waist, leaving you no chance to escape, and you can't deny that you don't even want to.

And you are sure you will break her.

One way or the other.

Later or sooner.

She takes your hand and presses it to her cheek. "I trust you."

---

_**No, not necessarily sex. Just the whole power-love-fragility-tragedy dilemma in general. Aro knows that Jane will get hurt sooner or later (physically and/or emotionally) because of her love for him, but he can't just not love her either.**_

_**I don't know… I might delete these drabbles soon… or add other Jaro drabbles as well. I've written quite some of them by now, but I don't feel like opening up a new drabble series… do either I delete this and make a new drabble series, or I change the topic and idea of "Bittersweet Thoughts" a little. Hope that wouldn't make you hate me much. o.O**_


	7. Harlequin

_**Symbolism. Oh how I love thee. Yes, I know I overdo it at times, but it is just found the "black and white" metaphor and symbolism very interesting.**___

_**Jane has been hurt and betrayed at such a young age, so I think she must have picked up some "black and white, bad and good" mentality that makes it easier for her to classify and deal with things. But of course that wouldn't work anymore once she fell in love…**_

_**This isn't really from the usual "You" Aro POV, I have decided to bring some other POVs in as well, but still keep the concept of thought-centered drabbles.**_

_**And when I was a little kid, I used to be afraid of those harlequin dolls with the black-and-white chessboard pattern on their dresses for some reason… that's why I chose this title. o.O**_

---

Her world is simple.

There are positives and negatives, whites and blacks, nothing in between.

The flames have swallowed all the greys.

Purgation. The word makes her laugh voicelessly, rock her small frame back and forth, giggle madly. Purgation, an almost comical parody of it.

She sits in her room, a broken doll, an androgynous harlequin in chessboard white and black.

Because she can.

She can be a child. She can be a woman. She can be whatever silhouette she cuts out of stiff paper for herself. White. Or black.

It is a strange adolescent logic, perhaps.

Or just the wish to know at whom she needs to direct her hatred. The need to separate the world in good and bad, in white and black boxes that can be named and locked away.

They won't burn her again, because she has put the trust and fire in the white box, the betrayal and hurt in the black one. Locked away safely.

Things change though.

They change slowly, they shift with the centuries, like the sketchy coulisses of a run-down theatre, so steadily that she can't notice.

One day the boxes have fallen down and she can't even tell when it happened. White and black all over on the grey stone floor.

There are no boxes.

They are just imaginary, mirages that fade faster than the thin mists that sometimes hang in between the soft Tuscan hills in the morning.

And her attempts have been futile.

She realizes somewhat astonished as she sits on the grey stone floor, or on a grey rooftop, or in a grey chair, the setting doesn't matter, the realization does.

He is grey to her.

He is bliss and pain, comfort and insecurity, savior and puppeteer, platonic and not, innocence and lust.

With his soothing words, handsome white features, the smiles that make her ache and his long, beautiful black hair he is grey.

And being a child is not enough anymore, while being a woman is out of reach.

It confuses her like nothing has ever confused her before.


End file.
